


l'vionachik v ovéch'yey shkúre

by imperiousheiress



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, as much as is possible for this pair of assholes, to the nth degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperiousheiress/pseuds/imperiousheiress
Summary: Eddie steps through the doorway and stops as soon as the door closes behind him.What he wasn't expecting to see when he got back to his apartment was Adrian in his kitchen, focused intently on a pot of– Well. Something. A pair of grey sweatpants that Eddie's positive are his hang low across Adrian's hips and his white shirt is wrinkled, every last button undone. He’s standing in front of the stove looking like a dream.His concentration remains unbroken by Eddie's entrance, and he thinks for a second that he really is dreaming.Then, without turning, Adrian says, “Hey. Come and taste this,” and holds out a wooden spoon in the direction of the door.
Relationships: Edward Blake/Adrian Veidt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	l'vionachik v ovéch'yey shkúre

Eddie steps through the doorway and stops as soon as the door closes behind him. 

What he wasn't expecting to see when he got back to his apartment was Adrian in his kitchen, focused intently on a pot of– Well.  _ Something. _ A pair of grey sweatpants that Eddie's positive are  _ his _ hang low across Adrian's hips and his white shirt is wrinkled, every last button undone. He’s standing in front of the stove looking like a dream. 

His concentration remains unbroken by Eddie's entrance, and he thinks for a second that he really  _ is _ dreaming. 

Then, without turning, Adrian says, “Hey. Come and taste this,” and holds out a wooden spoon in the direction of the door.

Eddie only hesitates for as long as it takes to slither out of his leather jacket and toss it up on one of the wall hooks to his right. He automatically goes to put it on its usual hook and has to stop himself from hanging it over the pristine white peacoat that’s currently occupying the space. 

With that taken care of, he floats into the kitchen. He’s carried forward by his feet like this is all perfectly normal. Like it’s just routine to come home to Adrian with food on the stove. He has a key, of course, but this is still new. 

Eddie’s hand wraps around Adrian’s on the handle of the spoon and guides it to his mouth. He recognizes the taste as soon as the pleasantly warm liquid spills over his tongue.

“Borscht?” 

“A vegetarian variety, yes,” Adrian hums. He finally meets Eddie’s eyes when he asks, “How is it?”

Eddie takes another sip, finishing off what’s left on the spoon. The flavors of the rich, mulberry red broth linger in his mouth as he shuffles out of his chalky dirt-covered boots and kicks them back towards the door.

“It’s good.” Eddie snorts with no derision behind it. He releases Adrian’s wrist in favor of sliding a hand down to his ass, leaning in close. “You fucking commie.” 

Adrian rolls his eyes and tries to cover his smile by turning his head when he sticks the spoon back into the pot to stir, but Eddie sees it anyway and grins. He presses a kiss against Adrian’s cheek.

“I’m going to go get changed,” he says against soft marble skin. He slaps Adrian’s ass and pulls away, turning to head for his bedroom. 

“It’ll be ready soon,” Adrian calls back over his shoulder.

Eddie doesn’t bother to close the door when he starts stripping out of his layers. He starts by disarming, tossing his utility belt on the floor next to the door. Then he’s shucking his shirt and the light ballistic armor underneath and trading them in for a black wifebeater that it takes him a minute to locate among the other clothes shoved into the second dresser drawer. 

When he walks back through the doorway, pulling the fabric into place over his stomach and still presentable jeans (not that there is any need to be presentable here, now) Adrian is setting two bowls gingerly on opposite ends of the small table.

“Good timing,” he says. 

Eddie almost passes the table entirely to go for a cigar before he sits down, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to provide any fuel to get  _ that _ argument started, not right now. So he stops, instead, and pulls out his usual chair, plopping into it. 

The soup looks perfect, topped with a dollop of sour cream and sprinkled with parsley. The mix of onion and spice fills his sinuses while the beet-laden vegetable broth burns pleasantly down his throat. An involuntary groan vibrates through his vocal chords and Adrian looks extremely pleased with himself where he’s sitting across the table.

Eddie eats - not as delicately as his companion, but the silence is comfortable and he hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until he’d actually gotten something in him. He doesn’t ask about Adrian’s unexpected visit, or his rumpled appearance, or the food.

When he finally speaks, what he says is, “This  _ is _ really good. Didn’t take you for a big cook.”

Adrian leans forward, letting one elbow fall to the table in an uncharacteristic disregard for posh table manners. He doesn’t offer any explanations for his actions. Doesn’t bring up the time weeks ago Eddie had made an off-handed comment about having fallen in love with borscht once, on assignment deep in commie country.

He shrugs and says, “It’s a skill I grew up with. While it’s true I don’t have much need for it nowadays, cooking relaxes me. I like to revisit it once in a while, although I’m no expert.”

Eddie’s gaze sweeps distractedly over the exposed strip of smooth torso between the two sides of Adrian’s unbuttoned shirt, a casual perusal.

“Coulda fooled me.” 

Adrian smiles around his spoon and Eddie feels a warmth inside and out that only has a little to do with the soup. His own cheeks stretch in response. He lifts his bowl and drinks the rest of the contents down, slurping up the last of the broth thickened by melted sour cream, before setting it back on the table and wiping his hand unceremoniously over his mouth.

“Well, any time you feel like relaxing, my kitchen is open.” 

Eddie stands, carrying his dishes in one hand. As he passes Adrian’s chair, he reaches his arm out to ruffle too-neat blonde hair. His gentle fingers push it back from Adrian’s forehead, following the movement of the rest of his body, and Eddie feels how his rubbery neck lolls back to follow the touch.

The bowl and spoon get added to a growing pile next to the sink that includes more cutting boards than Eddie thinks he owns. He shuffles to the fridge and grabs a half-empty bottle of bourbon by the neck. Adrian’s head turns automatically when Eddie makes a clucking sound with his tongue. He holds the glass bottle in his direction. A question. Adrian answers with a roll of his shoulders and tilt of his head that says,  _ Sure. Why the hell not? _

Eddie extracts two glasses from the cabinet and fills them up. He slides one over the table to stop in front of Adrian and swallows a hard gulp from the other. He stands, leaned against the side of the table, one hand bracing his uneven weight against the wood.

“So,” he says after another sip, “what else did you have planned for this evening?”

Adrian daintily sets his spoon in his bowl, metal clinking once, softly, against ceramic. He reaches for his own glass. Eddie carefully tracks the movement of his hand, his fingers against sweating crystal, the pulse of his throat when he swallows. 

“I was thinking,” he says slowly, and he’s twisted in his seat to face Eddie, one arm draped over the back of the chair he’s sitting in. His open shirt spills from behind him, gossamer marble, like a goddamn Renaissance statue. His voice is a creamy purr.

“I was thinking you would help me with the dishes. And then, when that’s done, I have some new rope that needs testing, and some new knots to try. So I was  _ thinking _ you could tie me up on your bed and fuck my brains out.”

He suggests it the same way someone else might suggest settling down on the couch to watch  _ The Brady Bunch  _ after dinner, the sentence punctuated by a sip of bourbon. He doesn’t even flinch at the taste and Eddie barks out giddy laughter.

Half an hour later, the dishes have either been returned to their cabinets or are drying on the counter. The fronts of both their shirts are soaked through. Eddie has Adrian scooped up in his arms, his hands hooked behind Eddie’s neck. He laughs as he is carried back to the bedroom.

This is not the future that awaits them, Eddie knows. (Even if it's one he could learn to tolerate. Hell, who is he kidding? One he could _enjoy.)_ They are not the kind of people who have the luxury of settling down. Of finding a rhythm in routine. One that consists of coming home after long days to each other. To soup and insults traded like endearments. This facsimile of domesticity is a joke, really, and he knows he's a fool for playing along. 

But for once he's content being the punchline. Just for a moment, he can let himself pretend, and that can be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's post oldfic for rarepair hours lads  
> thanks for reading ♥


End file.
